Sandra recalled a phrase she’d heard Pam use: We have just the lives we want. When Sandra first heard it, she thought that was ridiculous. She didn’t purposely set out to be with a married man, one who would give her HIV, impregnate her, and then die. It was all chance. Karma. But then, as Sandra began to think about what it really meant, she began to see that there was some truth to it. She wanted an easy life without too many encumbrances, and being involved with a wealthy, married man guaranteed she’d attain some of those goals. She was self-centered and prideful. Jack fit her to a T. How did she know he would die? If she had it to do over again, she probably would have done the exact same thing. The knowledge that she would purposely set out to hurt someone as she had hurt Pam shamed her. Had she learned nothing? She took a sip of tea and heard the key in the door. Tom was home from visiting his mother. Another plus—he was good to his mom. But then, so was Jack.
14
Saturday morning, Bernice Smith woke up thinking clearly for the first time in ages. Getting out of bed was easier than it had been for months, and she got into the shower under her own steam. Hearing water running, her maid came up to the bedroom to investigate and was surprised to see her employer accomplishing her morning toilet much the way she used to when she was feeling better, before the shock of losing her sons, one to death and one to jail, had aged her overnight. Mildred straightened up the bed covers and went back down the stairs to the kitchen to get coffee for Bernice.
“Guess who is up on her own and taking a shower this morning?” Mildred asked the cook, Bea. “I wonder how long it will last this time?” She was referring to the periods of self-reliance, which were coming further and further apart and lasting for shorter amounts of time. When Bernice was feeling well, it was almost pleasant to be there. But when she was out of sorts, the entire household would be in an uproar. Nelda was the only person who could cajole the old lady into getting dressed or eating.
“I’m afraid she is a candidate for assisted living. It’s ridiculous to keep this big house for two little old ladies, one of whom no longer knows where she is more than half the time,” Bea said. “I’m getting tired, myself. Don’t know how much longer I want to do this. What about you?” she asked, directing her question to Mildred.
“You know I’ve had it,” she answered, fixing the coffee tray. On good mornings like this, the two ladies in residence would have coffee together in Bernice’s bedroom. Mildred placed the coffee pot Bea had prepared on the tray, along with a plate of fruit salad and toast points, like baby food. The days of lavish pastry for breakfast were long gone.
“I’m thinking we better get in touch with Miss Pam. The old lady is having a good day; this might be the time to bring up the assisted-living topic rather when she doesn’t know where the heck she is. Why wait until the spring, like she said before? Time to do it is when she is still in her right mind, so she can have some input into the decisions.” Mildred lifted the tray, groaning under its weight. “My days are definitely numbered here,” she said.
Bernice was sitting at her dressing table when Mildred returned with coffee. She was carefully applying her makeup, hands shaking.
“Good morning, Millie. Don’t quote me, but I think my days here are numbered,” she said, mirroring her maid’s thoughts. “I was standing in the shower thinking about how ridiculous it is that we are spending all this money for two old ladies to live like queens. Would you get my daughter-in-law on the phone for me? I think it’s time to do something about this old mausoleum.” She turned to look at the maid. “I mean the house, not me.” Mildred smiled at her employer, thinking, the planets must be lined up perfectly. Mildred brought Bernice a cup of coffee and went to the phone to dial Pam’s number. When Pam saw the mansion number on caller ID, she thought, Oh no, what else is going to happen today? Good news rarely came from that house anymore.
It was Mildred. “Mrs. Smith asked me to get you on the phone this morning, Miss Pam. Would you hold the line please?”
Pam heard murmuring in the background and then her mother-in-law’s voice. “Pam, I think it’s time for us to get together to plan for the sale of the mansion. I was looking around here this morning and it is either renovate soon or get out now.” Bernice paused, looking around her lovely bedroom, but seeing clearly that the priceless wallpaper was beginning to peal, and in the bathroom, the plumbing was starting to show its age. “The old place deserves to be taken care of properly and I can’t ask you to spend the money.”
“Shall I come into the city so we can talk?” Pam asked, wanting to give her mother-in-law all control. Although she hated having to drive into the city on a Saturday in the snow, she wasn’t sure how long the lucidity would last. By this afternoon, she might be a lunatic again.
“Why not come for lunch?” Bernice said.
Oh great, Bea’s going to love this, Mildred thought. Pam agreed and Bernice said good-bye. There was a knock on the door. It was Nelda, coming for morning coffee.
“Did I hear my daughter’s name mentioned?” she asked. Bernice told her the plan to talk to Pam about selling.
Nelda didn’t agree. “If it ain’t broken, don’t fix it,” she retorted. Allowing her daughter any more control over her life would happen over her dead body. “Everything is working out so nicely. Why upset the apple cart now, of all times? Right before the holiday?” Nelda had been looking forward to a festive Christmas in New York City. Being dragged away to one of her daughters’ suburban houses with their monstrous kids was the last thing on earth she wanted to do.
“I know, I know,” Bernice said. “But look at this place. It’s starting to fall apart. We can’t ask Pam to lay out the kind of money it would take to bring everything up to date. After all, Nelda, she is your daughter! I would think you’d have more consideration for her.”
Mildred turned her head to snicker. The haughty matron defending Pam? She must be coming down with something. She tiptoed out of the room so as not to draw attention to herself.
“My daughter is loaded. How much will it cost her to put us in assisted living? That’s what she’ll do, you know. She hinted at it a few weeks ago. ‘You two would love it at the Eagle’s Nest. You would be right next to all that shopping on Fifth Avenue.’ I’d rather die than move to that high-rise nightmare.” Nelda picked at the plate of fruit Mildred had set out for her. “Speaking of dying, I’d die for a pile of eggs this morning. Hurry up, will you? Let’s go to breakfast.”
Bernice got up from her dressing table and walked over to the coffee tray. “You really are uncouth,” she said to Nelda with a smirk. “I was just starting to believe you weren’t so bad and then you say something like that. Dying for a pile of eggs would defeat the purpose. Besides, Pam will be here for lunch.”
“Oh no! Why’d you go do a thing like that? She is the last person I want to see today. I thought we would have our Saturday to ourselves, like we always do,” Nelda complained. Bernice was struggling with the clasp of her watch and walked over to Nelda for help. The two women spent minutes trying to buckle the clasp while they bickered. “I want to go out for breakfast like we always do on Saturday.” Nelda got the buckled closed, but she was pouting. Her daughter was coming to spoil her day. She looked up at Bernice, who had applied her makeup perfectly and had every hair in place.
“You look just like the old Bernice!” Nelda exclaimed. “I better go double check my own appearance. You will put me to shame.”
Nelda’s praise pleased Bernice, but within minutes, she would forget the compliments and decline into her usual miserable, demented state. The two women descended the grand staircase, chatting about how they would spend the weekend, when the first sign of Bernice’s decline reared its ugly head. Nelda later said she could see the transformation in Bernice’s eyes before she opened her mouth.
“Why are you still here?” Bernice whined, looking at Nelda with confusion. Bernice motioned to Mildred to join them. “Mildred, why is she here? I don’t want to be bothered today! I demand that so
meone tell me what’s going on in my own house.”
Mildred got to Pam before she left; no point in coming to the city today because Mrs. Smith had lost her moment of lucidity. The final decision to sell the house would be Pam’s, after all, and she’d do it knowing the fabulous mansion of Columbus Avenue, home of a Smith since 1855, would be torn to the ground and high-density housing put up in its place.
15
Marie lay on her back in the MRI machine with her hands crossed over her belly. The machine was making the most God-awful clanging and banging; there was piped in music, but who could hear it? A disconnected voice periodically asked her if she was okay. Just a few more minutes and they would be done. After she’d spent the weekend in Babylon, Steve came to get her Sunday night to keep the appointment with the revered Dr. Garpow. Marie was disarmed when she met the doctor. She had expected another disheveled bald man. Instead, she was so distracted by his handsome appearance and friendly demeanor that she forgot everything he said to her the minute it was out of his mouth. Fortunately, Steve had taken over, and except for one embarrassing moment when a nurse referred to Marie as his daughter, he listened carefully to every single word the doctor said. And none of it was good.
When the MRI was completed, the doctor performed a spinal tap; a procedure in which Marie laid on her side while a very slender needle was threaded into her spinal column. A small amount of cerebral spinal fluid was obtained for testing. It didn’t hurt especially, she said afterward.
“The hardest part was lying perfectly still, curled up in the fetal position. I really need a glass of wine,” she said. Steve kept quiet.
“You can get dressed,” the nurse said. “Dr. Garpow will come out to see you in a moment.”
After she left the room, Marie looked at Steve with a grimace. “I don’t feel good about this. Someone is going to say something to me about eating, or not drinking, or placing blame on me, I know it.” He put out his hand, palm down, pumping the air in classic Steve Speak. Marie wanted to slug him.
“Just shut up for a minute, will you? You’re making yourself crazy,” he said. She was making him crazy. He felt the same vibe; something bad was going to be revealed and he was going to be the one responsible for taking care of her. And it wasn’t just going to be about eating and drinking. He’d felt it for days; unless it was simply stress that making her so totally out of control.
He’d caught the look Pam gave him at the door the previous day, eyebrows raised and head to the side, she was trying to convey something to him. Before Marie woke up Monday, Steve was on the phone with Pam.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “She was mumbling something about you making her eat carrots all weekend.”
Pam snickered. “She was worse than a five-year-old about the food thing. I finally gave up. She did eat, but only junk. I even tried her favorite, fried chicken and potato salad, but she didn’t want that unless it came from a drive-through. I kept smelling cigarette smoke, too.”
Steve was embarrassed but didn’t confess to Pam that it was probably his fault.
“Well, thank you for taking over this weekend. She needed the rest,” Steve said. “Is there anything else you noticed?”
“Yes, I thought she acted like she was about ready to fall asleep all the time, but that could be the pregnancy, too.” Pam didn’t know what to make of her sister; she had changed dramatically from someone who had been able to take care of herself, hold down a full-time job and live alone, to needing almost continuous reminders to eat, bathe, and even to go to the bathroom. Marie was crossing her legs while standing up talking in the kitchen, the way a six-year-old who had to go to the toilet would. Pam didn’t mention that Marie also looked like a meth addict.
“She seems like a child to me,” Pam confessed. “But it could stem from her simply wanting me to wait on her like I used to.” Pam didn’t tell him about Marie’s nightmare on Friday night. Pam woke up to a blood-curdling scream from the children’s wing. She ran to Marie and tried waking her up, soothing her, and repeating that she would be okay, and then in a strange, childish voice, Marie had started crying to her about how sorry she was about everything.
“Oh Pam, I miss Jack so much, I miss the way our family used to be. I’m sorry Pam, so sorry,” she cried. Pam held her, patting her back as she did when they were youngsters, and finally Marie calmed down and closed her eyes for sleep. Pam tucked her in and left the room. The next day, Marie didn’t seem to remember it had happened. Pam helped her get into her sweatpants and hooded sweatshirt, alarmed at her sister’s skeletal frame.
Marie wanted to sit out on the beach, close to the house, to wait for Steve, who was coming from the city to take her back home. It was warm in the sun, but Pam wrapped her in a blanket, an extra layer against the wind off the water. The bright blue sky and the sounds of the wind and water hitting the sand, along with the calling of gulls, stirred a deep, visceral emotion. Marie let the tears fall once Pam was out of range. Marie and Jack had loved each other, or at least he’d pretended that he loved her, and the fun they had, the sheer rush of joy she had whenever they were together was never going to happen for her again. The knowledge that she wouldn’t find it even with her baby made her sad. The wanton, forbidden edge that her relationship with him had would make every single thing pale in comparison. It was selfish and immature, but it was what she felt for him. Steve certainly would never be able to compete with Jack. Am I still here? Marie thought. Am I such an ass that I’m crying over a ghost? Stop wasting your life and be grateful. She struggled to get out of the chair and started walking down the beach. Somehow, she would get some strength back so she could return to work. Maybe her angst stemmed from inactivity.
Without warning, a premonition came over her; a vision of someone who she thought might be Pam, lying in bed with the family surrounding her. At the head of the bed, a priest with a rosary in his hand bent over and made the sign of the cross on a head. It was sudden and powerful, bringing Marie to a standstill. She looked over her shoulder at the house and determined that she was far enough from it to light up a cigarette and not incur her sister’s wrath. The first drag almost knocked her to her knees. She stood with her back to the line of homes and faced out to sea; a position she’d taken many, many times over the years, often with Jack. She couldn’t shake the feeling of doom. Marie hoping peace would return to her but the tranquil view did not deliver this time as it had so many times in the past. She remembered feeling abandoned by Jack when he would finally extricate himself from her to go and spend a few hours with his wife. She never let him go peacefully.
“Stay here, or I’ll tell,” was her common mantra. They often got into physical fights when Marie made demands that Jack didn’t want to fulfill. He would hold his hand over her mouth, threatening to suffocate her if she didn’t shut up. Another favorite involved Jack turning the tables on Marie, telling her that he would confess to Pam their longtime relationship and Pam would forbid her to ever set foot in the beach house again.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Marie would scream. But Jack was convincing. He controlled their affair right up to the end. Week after week he made excuses not to see her, claiming it was on behalf of her sister, when all along he was seeing Sandra. Marie hiccupped a sob; if she had only known, she would have done something about it. The memory of seeing them on the street together, as she had the day he died, would permeate every moment of the rest of her life. There was no getting around it. He might still be alive if she had acted.
She heard her name being called and turned toward the house to look; it was Steve. Poor Steve, he looked so out of place at the beach. Steve belonged in a saloon, or at the track. She flicked her cigarette behind her, but he’d smell it on her, so it was no use hiding it. They walked toward each other.
“Are you ready to go back to civilization?” he asked, reaching out for her. They embraced and he bent down to kiss her, not mentioning her smoke breath. He had more pressing things to nag about her about now, like eating,
or more importantly, going back to work. They would never survive on his pay alone.
“I guess so. I was just wondering if I would ever feel normal,” she said, realizing that wasn’t exactly what she was thinking, but it was close enough to distract him from asking anything too probing.
“Tomorrow, let’s ask the famous Dr. Garpow,” he suggested.
Marie sat on the edge of the exam table and Steve was in a chair while they waited almost an hour for the doctor to come back. They played Sudoku and tic-tac-toe, made-up word games, and Scrabble on their phones. When Dr. Garpow walked through the door, Steve felt his discomfort.
“I’m sorry to tell you, Marie, but you have a brain infection. It won’t be easy to treat. What I’d like you to do is to allow us to treat you at home; a visiting nurse will come and administer IV antibiotics and other drugs. You’re too vulnerable to be in the hospital. There are too many resistant bugs and I don’t want you exposed,” he explained. Steve was numb. What did that mean? But he remained silent, hoping Marie would ask the difficult questions. He was afraid she would blame him if the answers were negative.
“What about the baby?” she asked, pale and shaking.
“The baby should be okay if you are okay. But it means several things, Marie. You have to take your antiretroviral drugs. You have to eat,” he said. “Alcohol is out, totally. If you want to give your baby a chance, you must do as I tell you or there is really no point at all in either of us wasting our time.” He went on to describe how the brain is infected with the AIDS virus itself, and the toxins given off by the virus begin to destroy brain tissue. Since Marie didn’t know exactly when she became infected, it was uncertain how long she’d had the infection. If she wasn’t treated, it could have devastating consequences. Steve knew Dr. Garpow was holding back. If they wanted more information, they could Google it when they got home; Dr. Garpow actually suggested it. When he left the room, Marie slid off the table and reached for her coat and purse. “Well, he didn’t really tell us a fucking thing, did he?”
Prayers for the Dying: Pam of Babylon Book #4 Page 9